


too great oppression for a tender thing

by MercutioLives



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Drabble, Escape, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"It was a particularly cold December in Firenze, but in Tybalt's dream it was sweltering July in the streets of Verona."</em>
</p><p>Though Tybalt's tried to leave it behind, the past returns to haunt him. Mercutio understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too great oppression for a tender thing

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write cuddly Tycutio, and I'm not even pretending to be sorry. All my thanks to my lovely [Dani](http://tybaltlicious.tumblr.com/) for providing me with the scenario. I wrote it at like 5:00 in the morning, so I don't claim perfection or even decency -- but it sure as hell is cute.
> 
> As before, Budapesti Operettszínház DVD cast as canon.
> 
> The wonderful [Marin]() illustrated this fic. Go check out their awesome [artwork](http://privatesnarker.tumblr.com/post/84657291249/all-of-the-texture-mwahahaaa-cough). (cw/tw: blood)

It was a particularly cold December in Firenze, but in Tybalt's dream it was sweltering July in the streets of Verona. Asleep, he was curled against Mercutio for warmth beneath a thick blanket, limbs comfortably entwined, foreheads touching. There was no such closeness in the dream, which was more like a memory, though time and dream-sense altered certain details. In reality, he had never felt a drop of Mercutio's blood, but here in his mind his hands were slick with it; Romeo was nowhere to be found. The fault was entirely Tybalt's own, and it was left to him to catch Mercutio's body as it crumpled to the ground. So much blood, pouring out like water. More blood than could ever be in a person. It would never come off, he would be stained with it forever: hands, skin, clothing — even his tongue was coated in it. He would drown, he knew it. It was his fault, his his _his_.

He was sitting up before he even knew he was awake, scrambling out of bed just as consciousness began to creep back in. Behind him, a soft grunt, then hands upon his arm, tugging him backward. He wanted to shake free of the touch but instead he moved into it, his heart and lungs shuddering with each ragged breath. Eyes pressed shut, he allowed himself to be enveloped by soothing words and a comforting embrace. Still half in a dream, Tybalt couldn't quite make out what was being said, only that the voice at his ear was warm and familiar; he let it guide him back to awareness. It belonged to Mercutio, whose hands were now in his hair, stroking and petting in time with his slow, steady heartbeat. Tybalt could hear it beneath the murmur of his voice as he pressed his cheek to Mercutio's bare chest.

It was like this, sometimes, when the past crept up on them. Tybalt felt exhausted and boneless, much like he did after a fit, and just like those times, Mercutio was there with his gentle understanding. In their waking hours, nothing Mercutio ever did or said suggested that he was capable of gentleness, but here in the night it was different: here, as Tybalt clung to him, mute and quaking with the aftertaste of a nightmare at the back of his throat, he was everything Tybalt needed.

"There," he murmured after a time — minutes? hours? — and Tybalt realized that the panic was gone. He could barely remember his dream anymore, and didn't try. His eyes, half-lidded, blinked slowly, sleepily. Mercutio's lips were pressed to his forehead, then to his cheek, his eyes, nose, mouth. He never asked about Tybalt's dreams, and for that Tybalt was grateful: he did not want Mercutio to know that he still thought about Verona, now years behind them by their own choice, and the chaos that drove them away. Their life now was separate from the one they'd lived then, the memories carefully expunged when they could be and fastidiously ignored when they could not. Absent and thoughtless fingers traced across one of the only reminders they could not erase: the scar left on Mercutio by Tybalt's dagger. It was thin and pale, invisible in the dark but unforgettable even so. He felt Mercutio's breath hitch beneath his hand, and immediately he withdrew. It was too close.

"It'll be morning soon." Again, Mercutio's voice broke through the thick fog of his thoughts, followed by another kiss. "Go back to sleep. With my kiss, a spell to protect you from Queen Mab's spiteful games." In the day, he would have scoffed at such a fanciful and patently false notion, but just now it was enough: he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift. He was caught a while between sleep and waking, and when his mind jolted him suddenly to awareness, it was always to Mercutio's arms about him, his fingers buried in his hair. Thus calmed, he sank back down until sleep rose up to pull him under completely.

As promised, he was haunted no further.

 


End file.
